Perchance to Dream
by mathietremas
Summary: The Doctor has a dream about someone he once knew. This is a short story that leads into a much bigger one.


_You never listen, do you?_

"Hmm?" Noticing that he was in white coattails, the Doctor glanced up to find a hazy figure coming towards him. Squinting, he frowned. "Is it really you?"

"I'm none too sure," the woman smiled, holding out her hand rather delicately. "Perhaps toss a coin, three out of four?"

"A shining fancy, then," he sighed. "No more riddles, no more trudging through the recessing deep—"

"No more tea times or tiny fiddles, no more playing chess with talking sheep."

"And you, a relic of the mind, a mere phantasm which still taunts me with witty grace and an amused countenance," he sighed again, taking her hand in his as he moved forward to glimpse her gown. "I would ask a dance," came a pause, then a shake of his head, "but not like this."

"No?"

"Mmm." Paying all too much attention toward the elaborate beading and masterful stitching, he finally smiled. "Always proud, the musing peacock, eh? You're nothing more than a memory, little one, and I think I can change you more to my own liking."

Glancing slightly to see her reaction at such a shift of mental plans, such as they were, he knew it all had to have been a dream. She waited for such a change patiently without any notion of trying to stop him.

Closing his eyes, trying to recall every little thing he had planned to remember of her to the fore, he breathed in deeply and exhaled as though the action itself, with all memories mustered, would change what she was wearing. With no surprise upon his features, he looked to see her exactly as he had wanted.

"Always proud, the learned Doctor," she chided playfully, not bothering to look at what was different, "wanting his study to look ravishing forever more. Such a chore, but never a bore, yet for a dance do his feet still find themselves scratching?"

Trembling, his free hand placed a finger to his lips to help silence his own mind. Was he constantly remembering how she would always try to convey meaning in poetry and riddles? Nodding his ascension, he whispered, "A waltz, perhaps?"

"He who holds the entire heavens at his fingertips and can, in turn, upon a simple dress transpose such a thing, finger upon his lips, can have whatever he chooses. You do hold the cards as well as the very strings, dear Victor."

"I wish you would keep my own self-gratifying semantics to yourself, dream-wraith," came a hushed rush of words. "I know better, now, and I am no better in knowing. There have been too many that I have lost — even _you_."

"I see the song has been chosen for your dance."

"I see nothing here to play any song beyond the mists of my own mind."

"You would have never thought you would ever chance a waltz through such a field. I trust you can summon the strings that yield upon your very will until the dance is done and gone?"

"You are trying to rush me," the Doctor muttered, lowering his idle hand and attempting to calm himself before possibly saying something inappropriate to his recollection of the woman. "Rid yourself of your rhymes, lady, they vex me."

"You never listen, anyway," she pouted slightly, the smile upon her face finally gone. Leading him along by the hand of hers that he still held, she took careful note of where the hem of her dress fell. Upon every third step as they wandered, she let her free hand absently rustle the side of her skirts.

"Is this your answer, then? Silence?"

"What was the question?" she managed, her voice light as though none of it mattered to her.

"Silence, girl. Silence to keep your distance. Silence to keep yourself from vexing me. Silence to keep [[[[[[[ _me ]]]]]]]_ silent."

"Does it work, this silence?"

"It makes me wonder."

"Wondering while wandering is often a sign of madness, a sign of a dulled mind in the hands of a lulled whisper."

"Cryptic words leaning towards use as a riddle will gain you no more favor than did your poetry, temptress," came a pout. He was starting to worry that somehow this dream was turning out very wrong.

"Temptress? Have I gained such a title?"

"I have named you things far worse in your absence."

"You should call me nothing more than a Shepherdess, as you had always managed before finally cursing my name," she returned, gladly placing the smile back where it belonged as she led him further into the mists. "You know I am one who guides the willing lamb, lovingly and with fear of nothing, toward its final placement."

"Slaughter?"

"No, you silly, blind, and foolish man!" came a light peal of laughter. "You asked for a dance, did you not? There is a perfect spot right here." Turning to face him fully, she allowed a deep curtsey before becoming completely serious. "Direct the strings, Doctor."

"What, instruments? There are none here, and no musicians to play!"

"Figure it out," she managed calmly.

"You wish to turn my own words to you against me, then?"

"I thought you said that this was all in your own mind, merely a dream?"

"Suddenly a nightmare, the way this is beginning to look. Should I wake? Should I scream out my frustrations so that I might wake you from your very death?"

"Do you wish to see me that much?" the woman grinned in amusement. "You've not glimpsed the trail behind you, all around you in your wake. How many more minutes will your rambling decide to take?"

"Regression in sentence construction," the Doctor huffed, noting she had stepped back toward rhymes. "I don't think I want to see you again in life, my dear, as my memories of you are more than enough at this point. Much more of this and I might tear out my own hair."

"Typical. You forget the little things, don't you? Macrocosmic perspectives have always been the key to your ultimate downfalls, neglecting the pinpoint narratives along the way." Sighing, she waved a hand to make his eyes follow her meaning. "Stars, Doctor. The room has been lit, and you must direct the strings."

"I am not your puppeteer," came a glare.

"I never said you were, though memories are, as all things tend to be, completely subjective and very flighty. There is a weight upon your hearts, and your mind, and your shoulders. What is it that holds you back from true direction?"

"In life, or for your little strings?"

"Either, both, or neither."

"Neither."

"Odd choice."

Seeing the confusion on the woman's face, the Doctor smiled in turn. "Take my place in this dream," he decided, hoping that his mind was merely confused at this point and needed to be released for a small amount of time to rest.

"You like wearing dresses, then?"

"Too literal, girl, but you should at least take the initiative. For once."

"Turn of pace, face to face, then next you bow to my kow-tow."

"This is surely a curse, please use free verse!" he pleaded while clutching her hand he still held, hoping to use her own methods to make her see reason.

With a roll of her eyes, she let such pass and merely took the power that had been handed to her. Keeping him in her silence, in her gaze, she positioned him as he would have done himself if he had taken the first steps, then placed herself in kind. When she found things at the ready, she smiled as though nothing were amiss and allowed her head to sway as though it were nothing more than a baton.

The Doctor noted she had managed a slow-paced three-quarter motion and followed suit for the rounds of the waltz. Curious, of course, that the music which had come upon the air was a piece he had heard before, though much more slowly drawn. More curious, still, was that the sounds were coming from everywhere, yet nowhere, and completely from various string instruments, though none, nor the players, were visible.

Was she conducting a dirge?

"Place a name to this tune for me, won't you?" he whispered.

"At every where and when, there are too many names to mention," she muttered, her eyes turned sullen while her head and motions still kept themselves in sync to the music.

He then noticed that, at every motion, another star dropped itself from her skirts and littered the floor to find its place among the others. Nearly every glow had drifted from the cloth as they, paired, danced through that very Universe to a musical piece with no truly defined name.

"There is a planet, just there," she added, though she knew the pace was not nearly slow enough for him to notice before flitting towards another, "where they know the piece well, but their words are not correct."

"Words?"

"Mmm."

"I was not aware of words."

"You are now as naïve as I once was," came a sly smile.

"I never knew you to gloat."

"This is your dream, if I recall. Dreams are reflections of one's true self, Doctor. Actions and reactions, inaction and retaliation. Pride and glut, sloth and hubris — everything reveals itself and revels in the possibilities therein and without."

"Therefore," he muttered darkly, "I am, at best, seeing myself and my failures, wishing to correct them while I still have the chance?"

"Perhaps."

"What else could it mean?"

"Let your conscious be your guide."

"What are you, then, if you are not what guides me at this point?"

"The song is over, yet you still wile away at notions and skip across a vast array of Space, through the Mists and across Time."

Noticing that he had still kept pace even though he had not recalled the music's end, and, too, there was no amount of glow left upon his partner's gown, the Doctor paused his motions. "I guide myself," he muttered, realization dawning at her true meaning.

"Your hearts before your mind, remember that," she nodded.

"Thank you, then. For your words and the dance."

"I can't possibly dance," came a blush. "You know as well as I do that I trip over my own feet—"

Finding himself awake, eyes wide and breath rapid as though he had seen a ghost, he noticed the scent of apple blossoms. Faint, but there, the Doctor merely waved it away as a memory that had been pulled out to keep the dream going.

He was sure he knew what the rest of the last sentence would have been, had he stayed there much longer.


End file.
